


the long-winded blues of the never

by SyntheticRevenge



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (More Hurt than Comfort), Angst, Immediately post-160, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, jon's probably a little more monstery than canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24325657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyntheticRevenge/pseuds/SyntheticRevenge
Summary: Jon can almost taste Martin's fear, his pain and confusion and that fog of disbelief pooling thick and warm and sweet like honey in Jon’s throat. He’s thinking, of all things, about the cows. He’s stuck on them. He wants to know if--and Jon can’t stop himself, in this moment there is so little of him left that he can’t bite anything back, he says “No, Martin, they’re not good cows anymore,” and Martin lets out a tiny gasp like he’s been hit.(Jon and Martin, after the end of the world)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 6
Kudos: 166





	the long-winded blues of the never

**Author's Note:**

> I had to vent some Jon feelings and this is how they came out, hope you enjoy <3  
> Title from DLZ by TV on the Radio.

Jon’s neck is stinging with deep, long scratches from mindlessly clawing at his throat, trying to get the words to stop coming out, to tear his larynx out and stop the Eye in its tracks. He’s never been strong enough. 

He can’t stop running rough fingers over the cuts, freshening up the pain. It’s a distraction, at least, from the ruined world on the other side of the wall he’s pressed up against. Martin’s still here, still sitting with him, still soft and warm and breathing and not angry with him, even though he should be. Even though he should be screaming and throwing things and threatening Jon with leaving and maybe also a knife. 

Jon can almost taste his fear, though, his pain and confusion and that fog of disbelief pooling thick and warm and sweet like honey in Jon’s throat. He’s thinking, of all things, about the cows. He’s stuck on them. He wants to know if--and Jon can’t stop himself, in this moment there is so little of  _ him _ left that he can’t bite anything back, he says “No, Martin, they’re not good cows anymore,” and Martin lets out a tiny gasp like he’s been hit.

“Please don’t do that,” he whispers, and the parts of Jon that haven’t run away and hid pulse with regret and shame and self-hatred, so thick it burns his eyes. He can’t make himself open his mouth to force an apology out, so he just tilts his head back against the wall, staring at the specks of anemic light coming through the curtains that Martin wrenched shut to stop Jon staring out. 

Martin starts thinking about Jane Prentiss. About waiting for Jon to come out of quarantine, about waiting for him to come back to himself for months after. How this is like that, like the coma, like--Martin is  _ always _ waiting for him. But he always comes back, he always comes out of it, and this won’t be any different, right?

Martin. Ever the optimist. Seeing good in humanity, even at the end of everything. He forgets, possibly, that Jon isn’t human anymore. That this is all his fault and that there is absolutely no way he can live with that. He handled Tim and Sasha and the childhood bully whose name still escapes him, even now, even  _ knowing _ everything, and he hates himself for letting them die, but he could keep moving through it. 

This is the entire world and it’s  _ His Fault  _ and the weight is pressing on his bones so hard they  _ scream _ with pain, threatening to snap. Martin doesn’t understand that part. Probably wouldn’t want to. 

The cabin is silent. The Eye dilates and a wave of fear and suffering floods in, making Jon’s guts twist, saliva filling his mouth. He grabs a handful of Martin’s shirt and twists, tight, trying not to vomit, trying to breathe, trying not to think about it any more than he has to. Martin looks down at him, his eyes shining with tears. Mouths Jon’s name, but no sound comes out. 

“I’m fine,” Jon breathes, throat raw and painful and burning with acid. He lets go of Martin’s shirt and hugs himself, his knees to his chest. He presses his face into his legs. 

“I really don’t like being lied to,” Martin says. He sighs and puts a hand on Jon’s head, running fingers through his greasy hair, slow and comforting. The kind of soothing gesture mothers make on TV. Something neither of them ever got to experience.

Jon doesn’t really realize he’s crying until it overwhelms him and he’s shaking, nearly convulsing, eyes scalding. Martin pulls him close, presses his face to his chest, and Jon struggles for air as sobbing racks his body. Martin’s crying too, softer, quieter, gentler. Trying to pretend he’s not there, Jon thinks, like this is the great vanishing act that was his childhood. 

Time doesn’t exist anymore. Time is the empty distance between conscious thoughts. Somewhere between conscious thoughts, Jon stops crying, and somewhere between the next set, Martin does too.

Silence falls again, heavy and oppressive. It’s too dark in here. Too quiet. The walls seem to lean in, pressing into their backs. 

“I think…” Martin starts, softly, and Jon ‘hmm’s. “I think I’m going to try to sleep. Maybe.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Jon asks, and something that’s almost a laugh escapes Martin, a little choked.

“No,” Martin says. “No, it’s probably not, but I’m...I’m fucking  _ tired _ , Jon, it’s...yeah.”

“Alright,” Jon whispers, pulling himself off Martin, finding it difficult to will himself to detach all the way. Martin’s what’s keeping him even a little sane, even a little grounded, even a little like he has a reason to keep going.

“Are you gonna be alright alone for a bit?” Martin asks, so soft, so sweet, his hand cupping Jon’s face, and Jon meets his eyes and nods. Wordless lying is easy. He knows Martin always wants to believe him.

Martin kisses him, gently, firmly, like he’s trying to root him in place, and gets up. He leaves the room, and Jon watches him almost seem to forget where the bedroom is. Like nothing’s the same anymore. Why would it be?

He disappears, and the door shuts, and Jon feels like someone cut his strings, like there’s absolutely nothing holding him up anymore. It’s just him, and the wall behind him, and the end of the world on the other side. He was so stupid, he was so  _ blind _ , so self-centered, so--

It’s too late to stop the world from ending, but it’s not too late to take a monster out of it. He  _ is _ fear, now, or at least an extension of it, a thousand, unblinking eyes--and the world certainly doesn’t need any more fear. Doesn’t need any more eyes. Doesn’t need anything else that feeds on suffering.

He’d love to get nothing out of the apocalypse. He would love to be absolutely desolate and hollow, for there to be a void nothing can fill, but he feels strong and  _ satiated _ , full to fucking bursting, and it makes him sick. The hunger is gone, that endless stabbing at his being, molding him into something he hated. He hates himself more in its absence.

He’s benefiting from this when the man he loves is suffering. It’s not right. It’s not right for someone like Martin to be trapped in this frozen spot in the middle of hell with a monster who thrives on this disgusting, thrilling voyeurism, however unwillingly. 

There is a bread knife in the kitchen. There is a near-full bottle of paracetamol in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. There are razors and ropes and gallons of bleach. Jon knows about all of them.

He also knows, deep down, even without the Eye, that none of it would make a difference. That there would be blood and incoherent apologies and Martin holding him and near-collapsing with the weight of it and that, after all of it, Jon would still be here, still breathing, still sickeningly full, and Martin would be too worried about him to breathe right. 

He’s not a torturer. He may feed on fear, but he’s not going to cause it. He can’t do that to Martin, as much as he would like to protect Martin from him. So he does nothing. He sits there, pressed up against the dying world, and he waits, and he tries not to think.

He can feel Martin dreaming, terror and pain and paralysis, losing Jon, losing the world. He can feel him wake up and forget all of it. 

The door opens and Martin sees him and sighs with what sounds like relief, and the sound melts Jon to his core. There is no morning anymore, but Jon’s love for Martin feels like the sun rising, sometimes.

“You’re still here,” Martin says, almost smiling, almost surprised, and Jon has to keep going to make sure no one and nothing ever,  _ ever _ takes the man he loves away from him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, any and all feedback is appreciated <3  
> find me on tumblr @witnesstotheend if ya want!


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